


sweating out the poison

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, EVERYONE IS MISERABLE AND NOBODY HAS COPING MECHANISMS. IDK WHAT YOU EXPECTED FROM ME, EXTREMELY Dubcon, Incest, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Self-Hatred, dubcon, in case you didn't get that from the relationship tag, seriously i cannot emphasize enough how incredibly dubious everything is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: The twins left not long ago. They don't have anyone else left, not anymore; Maedhros goes into heat on his own. (Not quite on his own.)





	sweating out the poison

They called it _ heat _ \-- _ úrë _ in the Quenya he grew up with, _ urui _in the Sindarin of Beleriand, for some things were not so different--because that was the first thing you felt. It was a sick sort of crawling feeling running up your spine, the itchiness of your skin, the stickiness of sweat that made it feel as though you were swimming through the air.

Maedhros knew heat. Knew it in all its myriad forms: the full light of Laurelin that was almost too bright to look at, the radiating heat that clung to his skin and left rain and hazy mists everywhere when it dimmed; the burning of a fleet of ships, the way it crackled all of the moisture out of his skin and smelled like the bonfires Celegorm would light on camping trips; the white-hot burn of a whip pressed into skin until it melted and bubbled and scarred. Yes, Maedhros knew heat, and knew it well.

As he felt the warmth pooling inside him, leaving him breathless and _ wanting_, he decided that this heat was not the least pleasant in itself, but left the others easily in the dust for what it forboded.

-

He hid in his rooms and drained alcohol as though the burn in his throat would somehow stop the burning everywhere else. His whole body ached for touch. Maedhros had never been one to give his body what it wanted. 

(Maitimo had been, once. Laurelin was bright and he learned so many meanings of the word _ heat_, under the dappled light in the humid air, leaning into the warm hands that touched his skin as though it were something to be treasured. It had been _ so long--_)

\--He shuddered with all his strength, as though he might be able to shake it off with sheer exertion of muscle. 

_ If only it were that easy, _ he thought ruefully, and then shook the thought off with a bitter scowl at the wall, because he was qualified neither to give nor receive pity, and he was usually better at remembering that.

It was strange, how it twisted his memory. He was so good, like this, at remembering things like--like Fingon’s lips on his, like Fingon’s lips on his chest, moving down, down, down--like Fingon moaning _ Maitimo _ in a voice that had not seemed so young at the time--

\--but he couldn’t even manage to remember what was still too painful to think about. His hand trembled around his glass; he hurled it at the wall in response, shattering it into a million pieces. He shouldn’t have chosen something so garishly red to drink; it was just another reminder, dripping down the walls like this. 

It was only when Maglor burst through the door that he noticed he had started laughing at some point, his voice tripping over itself in an unearthly noise that did not even pretend at happiness. And what a scene it must have been: Maedhros, eyes unfocused, laughing hysterically, with shards of broken glass scattered on the floor like knives and the dark color of wine staining the wall.

“What is it, brother?” Maglor asked, and the laughter stopped instantly, leaving the room in an eerie sort of silence.

Maedhros’ face was suddenly aloof, eyes looking at--no, looking _ through _ Maglor, as though the only truly interesting thing in his direction was in the air behind him. His voice was high and fluting. “Oh, you didn’t realize? Come _ smell _ me, _ brother_, if you need it so spelled out for you. I did not take you for a fool.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t--is there anything I can do to help?”

Maedhros smiled viciously, at that, and his eyes focused on Maglor’s at last. They glowed with a wild, terrifying intensity. His voice lost all its melody as he spoke. “Of _ course _ there is.”

The realization hit across Maglor’s face like a slap. “_No._”

“Oh, _ yes_. And I will have it from you soon enough. I can be very tempting like this.” Another unearthly laugh tore from Maedhros’ throat. “Or so I am told, at least.”

-

Maedhros was not wrong; but despite the smell, despite the way that it crept into Maglor’s nostrils and made him hard and reminded him of how easy it would be, how lovely it would feel, how beautiful Maedhros would be moaning beneath him, Maglor was not the first to break. 

Maedhros’ eyes were badly dilated as he paced the house until he found Maglor. It looked as though two gaping holes had taken up residence in his skull. The effect was eerie. He pinned Maglor easily, even with only one hand, and grinned savagely to feel the bulge between his thighs.

“I said no,” Maglor said mildly; he was rewarded with naught but a fey gleam dancing in the silver rings that were Maedhros’ irises. 

“And so I have done nothing. I just wanted to check, to see if you were truly _ uninterested _ or if you were just _ denying yourself_.”

“It’s wrong. It’s disgusting.”

“You followed me into Doriath. You followed me into Sirion. You never seemed to object to _ that _ , barely trying even a token resistance. I have seen your sword stained with the viscera of innocents, when I asked it of you. But this! I ask this, and suddenly, you have grown a moral compass. We have broken every other law, brother, you cannot have any shame left now. And you _ want _ it, I know you do.”

“You’re sick.”

“Then so are you.”

There was nothing Maglor could say to that. He closed his eyes. The smell of heat was overpowering. Maedhros wasn’t wrong; his hips ached to buck upwards. He whispered, lips barely moving: “Not yet.”

Maedhros backed off with a satisfied grin. “Soon,” he said, like a promise, and kissed Maglor almost chastely on the lips. 

-

The way Maedhros’ footsteps echoed through the empty fortress would have been painful enough on its own. The way that the smell lingered where he had been and wafted to where he had not, invading every crevice, was nigh unbearable. 

Worst of all was when the footsteps stopped and the banging noises began, of fists weakened by hormones pounding on the walls.

Maglor found Maedhros in the bathroom, and a shot of fear burst through him, because it was not fists he had heard, or at least not only fists; there was a quiet _ crack _ when Maedhros’ head hit the wall, and suddenly Maglor was upon him, pulling him away, and could feel nothing but gratitude that Maedhros had not his normal strength. Maedhros fought weakly for a moment, but then relaxed into the feeling of skin against skin, of hands on his wrists, of the warmth he found when he ground desperately against Maglor. At that, Maglor dropped Maedhros’ wrists in startlement, backing away. Maedhros licked his lips like a feral creature, grinning and laughing. He had lost interest in the wall, now that there was a better target for his frustrated energy. “As though you do not feel it too! Always the liar.”

“Fuck you.”

“_Please do_.” Maedhros was on him in an instant, all his weight (_too light _ , Maglor noted distantly, though he knew that if he were to say that he would be treated to a laugh and a comment to the effect of _ I’ve lived through being far more starved than this_) pinning Maglor to the floor. He shouldn’t have won; under normal circumstances, Maedhros was stronger than him and the more capable swordsman, but these were not normal circumstances. But Maglor was taken off-guard (or at least that was what he told himself) and so he fell beneath Maedhros’ weight, his hands held above his head. “Push me away,” said Maedhros, in a voice that was half dare and half purr. “Go ahead. You can do it. I do not delude myself that I am stronger than you when I am like this; it should be easy enough for you, no?” But Maglor only glared as Maedhros rubbed against him until his voice started to come breathy. “You never want to admit it, do you? That you might be capable of doing wrong. So much easier to blame it on me. You can say _ no _ to evil all day, and then as soon as you have someone else to pin the blame on you are so very _ eager _ to oblige. I suppose it’s my fault, in a way; when blame is getting passed around I tend to hoard it.” Maedhros let out a sigh that turned to a moan halfway through. “I won’t be coherent for much longer, _ darling_, if you’re going to shove me and make a run for it then you ought to do it soon while I can still appreciate it. It’ll just be miserable for - hhah! - _ both _ of us if you wait till I’m whining and begging instead of providing snide commentary.”

Maglor did not push him away; he gritted his teeth and turned his head from side to side, desperately trying to focus on anything other than the wild eyes in his brother’s face and the almost-painful hardness between his thighs. “I hate you, sometimes.”

“But you’re never strong enough to resist me. So, really, aren’t you just hating yourself?”

Maglor snorted reflexively, but the sound was breathier than usual. “As though _ you’re _one to talk about self-hatred.”

“Yes, well. What’s the saying? Do as I say, not as I do?” Maedhros’ hand had given up on holding Maglor down and was now pawing desperately at the laces of Maglor’s pants. “If just one of us had taken that advice! But here we are, _ brother_.” Maglor gasped as Maedhros punctuated the last word by gripping him firmly. “I’m about to fuck myself with you, and you’re not going to stop me. It’s a lovely metaphor for something or other, don’t you think? Or perhaps it’s not. Sometimes a cock is just a cock.”

Maglor moved without thinking; he couldn’t tell if he was struggling away or pushing up. Either way, it was a pathetic motion, an empty gesture that didn’t even manage to be a token or a symbol. “Maedhros,” he whispered, “please,” and he couldn’t tell what, exactly, he was asking for. 

“Shh,” Maedhros said. His eyes fluttered closed as he lowered himself onto Maglor, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. “That’s perfect, _ ah _ , right there—yes, fuck, _ yes— _”

“I hate you,” gasped Maglor, but his hips pushed up and he found himself moaning. “I hate you, I hate this family, I wish I was a better person--”

“But you’re not,” Maedhros murmured, and put his mouth to Maglor’s neck; Maglor could not tell if it was a kiss or a bite, but his lips left bruises in their wake. “And you never have been. Please--please, just like that, please, _ please _\--” Maedhros’ voice had lost its edge, the malice draining away and replaced with a quiet brokenness. Maglor buried his head into Maedhros’ shoulder, letting himself relax into the familiar rhythm, and tried to pretend it was someone, anyone else, that it was not his older brother that was so warm around him.

And then Maedhros sighed dreamily, murmuring “_ Findecáno_\--oh, Finno--”, and Maglor realized with a cold rush of horror that he was not the only one pretending it was someone else. When he forced himself to look at Maedhros’ face--at _ his brother’s _ face--he saw a smile that he hadn’t seen on his brother’s face in centuries. If not for the scars distorting it into a garish mockery of itself, Maglor would have felt as though he had somehow stepped into a memory of Valinor. Somehow, it was more intimate than the slap of skin against skin, more painful than any of the barbs that had been thrown. Maglor’s face twisted, and a tear slipped down his cheek as his face whipped to the side— _ no _—but he knew that Maedhros had been right. He wasn’t going to stop this any more than he had stopped the kinslayings. It had been too many centuries since Maedhros had smiled. Maglor’s hips canted up, rocked, drew a whimper from his lips. 

It was hard to tell, in the heat-wrapped daze, how long it was before it was over. “Finno,” Maedhros murmured sleepily, pushing his face against his brother’s sweat-stained skin, and the words of hatred died on Maglor’s lips.

“Yes,” he whispered instead. “It’s me. I love you, Russandol.” 

“I love you too. Promise me you’ll never leave?” Maedhros’ voice was _vulnerable_, earnest and hushed. The moment felt sacred. Maglor wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to break it with a scream, a childish litany of insults. _I hate you, Nelyo, I wish you had burned with our father, you have destroyed everything we once had. Now there is only this, only us, alone and broken and mad, and you cannot even see what you have done. I hate our father and the Oath and I want my big brother back, want you to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, and instead you are_ _this terrible broken creature and I hate you for it and I love you anyway and I hate that I love you. _

“I promise,” he said instead, and kissed the top of Maedhros’ fox-red hair.


End file.
